The Ginger Poet
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: pure, unadulterated Courf/Jehan fluff. Coffeeshop AU, in which Courfeyrac is a barista and Jehan (AKA The Ginger Poet) recites poetry every night.


**A/N: weeheee, some ridiculous fluff! I adore coffeeshop AUs, I must confess, and it was lovely to be able to write one. Hopefully you will all enjoy it!**

* * *

"What though the radiance which was once so bright," he began, eyes slightly closed and a sweet smile playing about his lips as he recited. The people in attendance could not help but stop whatever they were doing to turn and listen as his melodic voice, softer than a whisper and clearer than a bell, echoed through the small room. He was utterly at peace in this little coffeeshop, giving out his poetry-his _soul_-to complete strangers every night. He always seemed surprised at the end when everyone began to clap and cheer. Whenever they did this, a soft pink flush crept up his cheeks, giving him a positively cherubic appearance. He would fiddle a bit with the ends of his gingery blond hair, which was usually in a neat plait and which, when loose, hung past his shoulders in silky-smooth waves.

The barista smiled as he washed a coffee-stained mug, slightly in awe of the beautiful poet's positively angelic appearance. He was always on duty at night, as he was the only employee who did not mind the evening crowd. Most of the attendees were "poets" themselves-or at least, they certainly seemed to think so. In reality, the majority of them were barely able to write the most basic of poems and devoted their time to idiotic couplets or haikus and assumed that this made them descendants of Wordsworth or Whitman. One such haiku had actually been, _rainbow falls of blue/shining in springtime sunshine/my heart is singing_. However, some of the poets were just that-_poets_. So the barista did not mind when people recited their tacky rainbows-and-unicorns poems, because at the end of every night, without fail, he was treated to _this_. The ginger-haired poet, who seemed so shy and sweet and yet strong and powerful in a single breath.

At the end of his recitation, he would say a quick thank you in his beautiful voice (though the words often went unheard over the applause) and stumble off the little stage, looking somehow clumsy and graceful at the same time. He would always make a beeline for the shabbiest corner table, which was set slightly apart from the others. He accepted the many compliments with a warm smile as the attendees made their way out, and when the shop was utterly empty (except for himself and the barista) he would sit there deep in thought, fingers picking absentmindedly at a stray thread on his sweater (usually gold, with some kind of design on it; he almost always wore a pair of floral skinny jeans and TOMS with it).

The barista swiped at a second mug, this one red with white polka dots, frowning at the coffee grounds that were caked into the bottom of it. He was so intent on his work that he did not realise the last few stragglers were leaving until one of his regulars yelled a goodbye. He glanced up and caught sight of the ginger poet, who was in his usual corner, malachite eyes wide as he stared into space. The barista grabbed a mop and bucket and busied himself cleaning the floors, which were slightly sticky from the coffee that had been spilt onto them throughout the day.

Every once in a while the barista looked up and thought he saw the poet looking at him, but when he blinked the man's eyes were once again turned away. After about ten minutes of this the barista paused, sweeping his dark curls out of his eyes, and caught the poet looking at him. This time he did not glance quickly away, cheeks slightly hot.

"You could at least _help_," he said cheerfully. The poet blushed.

"I, er, yes! Of course. I'm sorry," he said, flashing the barista a radiant, albeit nervous, smile. "I, um, I'm Jean Prouvaire, or Jehan."

"Courfeyrac," said the barista extending a hand for Jehan to shake. "That's a nice name. I felt bad calling you The Ginger Poet around my friends. You don't actually have to help, you know," he added, when Jehan took the mop from him. The poet looked up, confused.

"What do you mean?"

He looked adorable, Courfeyrac thought, with his eyebrows slightly scrunched and the corners of his mouth quirked down in a curious frown. "I was kidding," Courfeyrac said, grinning broadly. "It was a clever trick to get your attention. Did it work?"

Jehan fake-pouted for all of three seconds before his face relaxed and he smiled. "Yes," he said truthfully, looking a bit shy.

"Ah! Well, we are now on a first-name basis, so I'll assume that you don't think I'm a fifty-year-old pervert. Which I'm not, by the way. I'm going on twenty-four."

"Me too," Jehan said softly, face lit up with pleasure. Courfeyrac brushed back a curl impatiently and smiled widely at the thin, willowy poet.

"Seems a bit stupid, giving the setting, but I was wondering if you might want to go out for a coffee sometime?"

"No," Jehan said promptly; Courfeyrac's face fell and he stared down at his feet. Then, "I hate coffee, actually. Would tea be all right? I've got about every flavour known to mankind."

Courfeyrac let out a disbelieving laugh. "I-I'd love to."

"Right," Jehan said happily. "I'll meet you here on Friday, twelve o'clock sharp. Don't be late!"

He turned to go, but stopped at the door when Courfeyrac called, "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"I-why not now?"

Jehan tilted his head to the side, as if calculating something. "It's eleven."

"Yeah."

"It's snowing bloody murder."

"Yep."

"Tomorrow's a Wednesday."

"Yes."

Jehan shrugged. "Come on then."

Courfeyrac beamed.

Ten minutes later, they were strolling down the deserted sidewalk, hands clasped together (partially for warmth, as Courfeyrac had left his gloves at home) and chatting merrily.

"I purposefully asked for the night shift," Courfeyrac said suddenly. "Because of your poetry. Your voice-it makes the words come alive." He blushed. "God, that makes me sound stupid."

"No, it doesn't. You sound a bit like Grantaire when he talks about Enjolras..." Jehan murmured.

"Er, who?"

"My friends. Grantaire is...well, he's a cynical drunk who believes in nothing except for Enjolras. He's an artist, too, and he's painted Enjolras dozens of times. He's absolutely in love with him. Enjolras is a political activist and he's a bit scornful towards drunks and, for lack of a better word, non-believers. He loves Grantaire too, it's completely obvious to me, but he's scared to tell him.

"Anyway, the point is that Enjolras has this way of talking whenever he gets a speech in his hands. It's like...it's like he _becomes_ the words, you know? He believes so ardently that he transforms into a sort of, well, _god_. He makes the speeches sound like birdson. At least, that's what R says. Grantaire never believed in anything before he met Enjolras."

Courfeyrac was silent for a while. "That's how your poetry is," he said finally. "Like, you're in a completely different world. I feel like I'm trespassing, almost. I never liked poetry before I saw you up on that stage."

Jehan was quiet, but he squeezed Courfeyrac's hand and seemed to stand a little closer to him.

After a while, Courfeyrac interrupted their comfortable silence. "So how come you recite at a coffeeshop if you hate coffee?"

"For you, idiot," Jehan replied without pausing.

"Wait, what?"

They stopped walking. Jehan rolled his eyes. "So you didn't noticed the fact that I always stay for at least an hour after everyone's left? I was waiting for you to say hi to me."

Courfeyrac blinked several times in quick succession, looking slightly dumbstruck. "Are you serious?"

Jehan scoffed and pulled the dark-haired man to him, kissing him hard on the mouth. Courfeyrac responded enthusiastically, almost lifting Jehan off of his feet in his eagerness. When they parted, both were breathing hard and Courfeyrac's cheeks were flushed; his hair was mussed rather badly.

"We can always have tea in the morning," Jehan said, kissing Courfeyrac again before tugging him none-too-gently in the direction of his flat.

* * *

**A/N: the line that Jehan recites in the beginning is taken from William Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immortality.**


End file.
